


For Lack of Foresight

by lady_needless_litany



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, F/M, First Meetings, Time Skips, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 04:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21368554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_needless_litany/pseuds/lady_needless_litany
Summary: Orson Krennic couldn't have foreseen it: the conflict, the confusion, the good times and the bad. Not when it had all begun so simply.
Relationships: Mon Mothma/Orson Krennic
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs Exchange 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PoliticalPadmé (magnetgirl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetgirl/gifts).

> I'm not quite sure when this takes place, exactly, but hopefully it should be comprehensible anyway. There's a 5 year age difference between Mon and Orson, if I understand my Star Wars dates correctly (which I probably don't, let's be honest).
> 
> Enjoy!

Orson Krennic detested the Senate. 

Make no mistake: he’d worked long and hard to get there, slogging through years of education and low-level politics. His six-month-old position in the Republic Corps of Engineers was the most recent stepping stone to power. It wasn't a fascinating job, seeing as he'd yet to land a serious project of his own, but being stationed at the Corps' Coruscanti headquarters had its advantages—he was frequently shoved towards liaising with the Senate and Coruscant's administration, seeing as his colleagues seemed to prefer the more technical side of their work. It suited him down to the ground, giving him ample opportunity to make friends in high places.

Still, the Senate itself was… boring. Stuffy. Inefficient. The architect in him cringed at the building's inefficacious design, while the conspirator rolled his eyes at the endless bureaucracy that ran riot in its hallways.

Privately, he harboured a hope that that day's meeting would prove an exception. It regarded a proposed infrastructure project in Hanna City, the capital of one of the Core planets. His visit was to ensure that they'd obtained a certain degree of political backing before they started serious planning and development. And while that, in itself, wasn't terribly interesting, the person he was meeting was quite another matter.

As he walked into the main Senate executive building, he was accosted by a protocol droid. "Excuse me, sir-"

Orson didn't bother to listen to the rest of the sentence. "I have an appointment in fifteen minutes. Senator Mothma."

The droid recognised him, at least, sparing him the annoyance of having to prove his identity. "Very good, sir."

It led him to a nearby lift, then through heavily-carpeted corridors. The place was endlessly labyrinthine, identical stretches of doors and plain walls making it hard to get his bearings, even after repeat visits; having an unerring guide was something of a relief.

Eventually, a small sign notified him that they had arrived.

The rooms appointed to the representatives of Chandrila were nothing to be sniffed at—here was a small open space occupied by several desks, presumably for staff or an Apprentice Legislator, with a meeting room on the left, separated off by a sheet of glass. A door on the right led, presumably, to Mothma's own office. In comparison to the kind of rooms assigned to Outer Rim planets, the place was practically palatial.

What was odd, though, was that the whole place was empty, aside from him and the protocol droid.

"We are currently within the standard lunch hours," the droid supplied helpfully.

"Of course," he muttered. _What the hell do these people actually get paid for?_

The droid preceded him to the door, typing an authorisation code into a discreet keypad on the wall. The door slid open and it stepped forward, blocking Orson's view of the interior. He heard, though, as it effusively greeted the person inside. Orson got the impression that if it had had the luxury of facial expressions, it would be beaming, which was rather uncharacteristic for a protocol droid. They were usually dry and demanding.

Not this one, it seemed. "I have brought the representative of the Engineering Corps, too," it announced in the odd, formal cadence of protocol droids, sounding almost proud.

"Thank you," came a quiet voice from within.

"You are welcome." After executing a short bow, the droid stood aside to let him pass, then exited and closed the door.

Mothma was seated behind her desk, but she stood as he entered. She was, he noted, considerably shorter than he'd expected, though she carried herself in a way that combined the confidence of a diplomat and the discipline of a military officer—certainly, her height didn't hinder her commanding aura in the slightest.

"I'm Mon Mothma," she said, bestowing upon him a controlled smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

He'd done his research; he didn't need her to tell him her name. He knew her name, her heritage, her public persona. He knew that she had become a full Senator at nineteen, a little over two years ago, one of the youngest in history. Since then, her rise within the Senate itself had been meteoric. All in all, she was an impressive person. If Orson hadn't suspected that their political views were utterly irreconcilable, he would have approached the conversation with significantly more deference.

Naturally, he took care not to disclose his foreknowledge, simply inclining his head.

"Lieutenant Commander Orson Krennic," he informed her, by way of reply. 

If she took offence at his tone, she hid it well. His voice had been civil, but cool; by his assessment, Mon Mothma had little to offer in the way of personal gain for Orson, given her political stance and her vehement opposition to nepotism, so he lacked a secondary agenda. This meeting was purely official business.

Gesturing for Orson to take a seat opposite her, Mothma began, not wasting any time on pleasantries. "I understand you're here to discuss the Hanna Central Transport Development."

Nodding, he apologised for the absence of his immediate superior, whose project the development actually was, providing some flimsy excuse that Mothma saw straight through. She had the good grace not to point out that his boss was notoriously cantankerous and would take any opportunity to avoid meeting with laypeople.

Not that Mothma seemed to be a layperson, in the general sense of the word. She seemed to know the project well, which caught him by surprise, and seemed genuinely invested. On several occasions, she threw in a question that forced him to think on his feet.

It would have been easy to feel defensive, insecure—Orson Krennic certainly wasn't the kind of man that enjoyed being on the back foot. Strangely, though, he found that he felt quite the opposite on that occasion; her natural gravitas compelled him to take her seriously, but there was a subtly amused glint in her eye that took any sting out of her words.

In that vein, they talked for almost an hour. And slowly, impossibly, he found himself warming to her. It was only when she glanced at the clock and realised that they were running out of time that she steered their conversation to a close.

"I see," Mothma said, resting her hands on the table in front of her. "Of course, I'm sure you understand that this doesn't fall under my remit—it's the responsibility of Hanna City's administration."

Smoothly, he nodded. "I absolutely understand that, Senator."

"However," she continued. "I've been sufficient impressed by what you've said; I think this could make a real difference. I'll put in a good word with local government, as far as I can."

It was a generic answer, the one he'd been expecting when he'd arrived. Still, a bolt of disappointment shot through him; after their conversation, he'd been hoping for more, somehow.

"Thank you for your support." Orson stood, nodding to her respectfully. "I won't take any more of your time."

She let him make his way to the door in silence. "Lieutenant Commander," she called out, forcing him to turn. "I think we ought to meet again. Our minds seem to work similarly, so I think we'd both benefit from the debate. As would this project."

The subtext was clear; he had to suppress a childish grin. "As you wish, Senator."

With that, he left the room.

As best he could, he retraced his footsteps to the lift. It gave him a moment to himself, to think. _She's as brilliant as they say_, he mused. _Not on my wavelength, politically, but brilliant. _

Almost without realising it, he followed that train of thought, until he came across something that was decidedly too personal, too close to _we could make it work_, to be entirely comfortable.

Scolding himself, he shook his head. It was best to dispel such notions quickly, he instructed himself. Friendship, let alone anything more intense, was not a wise choice, not considering his plans and ambitions. It was off the table. He shouldn't spend a second dwelling on it or on her, unless it concerned his work.

That was what he told himself, not knowing how far he would fail.

He couldn't have known, back then. He couldn't have foreseen that such an innocuous meeting was a seminal moment of his existence, marking the beginning of a connection that would span years and light-years, defining a great portion of his life. There would be years of arguments, debates, hours-long holo calls. Business and pleasure disguised as business. Days and nights and years spent together in various ways, on and off.

They would never put a word to it, to what they had, because it wasn't colleagueship nor friendship nor romance. But it was certainly _something_.

It would all fall apart when the Empire rose, of course, when they put themselves on opposite sides of a war, of an untraversable divide. There were many years until then, though, and he really, truly couldn't have foreseen it.


	2. Chapter 2

_Years Later_

It had been a long time since Orson had thought about their first meeting. In all honesty, many of the details now escaped him—at the time, he hadn't seen fit to record them for posterity. At the time, it hadn't seemed important.

Now, all those years later, he wished he had. He was on Coruscant, again, in his private quarters; he was leaving shortly, to visit Eadu, but he settled on the sofa in the meantime, still clothed in his full uniform. He activated the holo with a brief voice command, landing on the main news channel.

"-attack by rebels on a facility on Chandrila," the presenter said, voice loud and grating. "Possibly linked to the former Senator, Mon Mothma."

The image changed and then she was there, on the screen. It was old footage from a speech, seeing as the Empire had completely lost track of her and were desperately trying to capture her.

His stomach gave an abstract twinge. Silently, he wished he could feel hurt or betrayed or angry, but he couldn’t. She’d never lied to him about who she was, had never pretended that she was anything other than anti-authoritarian and anti-Empire. Their unceasing political debates had been evidence of that.

Still, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the image in front of him.

_Ah, Mon, _he thought, as if transmitting his regrets across the universe to her. _How did we get here?_

Almost as soon as he’d completed the thought, his peace was shattered: a harsh, computerised _beep_ was emitted from the door, signalling a visitor.

At the sound, he froze. No-one came to his apartment, not anymore.

He cleared his throat. "Who is it?"

The door beeped again, then switched to allow the other person to speak. They did so in a distinctive, sneering voice. "This is Tarkin."

Orson's viscera seemed to contract. _Kriff. What could possibly warrant this?_

Nonetheless, he hit the button that allowed the door to open and Tarkin to sweep in. He moderated his tone with care. "Afternoon, Grand Moff. My apologies—I didn't realise it was you."

“No matter.” Tarkin spotted the holo. "Ah, I see you've heard about Chandrila."

"Yes, well-"

Characteristically, Tarkin didn’t let him finish his sentence. "You know Mon Mothma, don't you? Or knew, at least?"

Now. This was Tarkin. He had to watch his words. A slip of the tongue could mean arrest. Or worse.

"I wouldn't say that," Orson replied, shrugging with feigned insouciance. "We’ve met on several occasions in the course of our respective work. As you have, I imagine."

_There_. It wasn't a lie, strictly speaking.

"Yes. But you knew her before I did," he pressed. “Before she started being such a thorn in our collective side.”

Orson got the feeling that he was being assessed; Tarkin had had some suspicion or wayward thought, and was using the opportunity to test his hypothesis. He’d seen him do it before, to others—it was an effective way of exposing potential traitors.

There was nothing for it.

"It was a long time ago," he lied, his smile bitter. "I hardly remember it."


End file.
